


time heals all wounds

by gortysproject



Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: (Probably more like "Inspired By" than an actual AU), Character Death, F/M, Lowkey Life Is Strange AU, Minor Violence, Modern AU, Private Investigators, Probably Slow to Update, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-23 20:24:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8341495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gortysproject/pseuds/gortysproject
Summary: Since the disappearance of her mentor, Felix, Fiona has taken over the family-run Private Detective business to keep her and her sister, Sasha, afloat. Being a detective used to be about putting in as little work as possible, and taking as much money as they could. That was until she found out she could turn back time.Rhys, on the other hand, just wants to find his missing best friend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> let's see how long i can keep writing this before i abandon it. private detective AU, probably won't be too NSFW, but please be aware that i might update the content warnings as i go along. let me know if you like it. <3

“It’s been _two weeks,_ Fi. Give up.”

Sasha clings protectively to the whiteboard, the words smudged beyond reading. She’ll have to rewrite them. _Good,_ Fiona thinks, spitefully ignoring the barely-visible words even though she already knows what they say. DAYS SINCE FELIX DISAPPEARED, the whiteboard used to read, with a tally following behind. Fourteen. Half the lines are now completely wiped off, but as soon as Fiona leaves her sister alone, they’ll surely be replaced. And then she’ll wipe them off again. And then Sasha will catch her in the act, and then they’ll start shouting at each other, and Sasha will grab the board to write it all on again. Rinse and repeat.

“ _You_ give up,” she bites back. “If you’re so sure he’s not coming back, why are you keeping the –”

Interrupting her, Sasha replies, “You know why I’m keeping the record!”

“No, I don’t! It’s stupid, it’s – it’s just a waste of ink!” Fiona folds her arms, distantly aware that their voices are getting louder again. They’ll get a noise complaint from the old lady upstairs with the meditation therapy business (if it can even be called a _business_ ). “How long are you going to keep it up? If he’s not coming back, are you carrying it on _forever_?”

Sasha huffs. “I’m carrying it on until _you_ admit he screwed us over! He’s not gonna –”

Her shrill tone almost covers the timid knock at the door, but she cuts off, both of them turning to look towards the hallway. “I,” Fiona starts, a matter-of-fact tone seeping into her voice, “have a _client_. So shut up and stay quiet.”

“Those mean the same thing.”

“What?”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Sasha says pointedly, “and _stay quiet_. That’s the same thing. You didn’t need to say it twice.” 

Fiona rolls her eyes, muttering, “Whatever,” as there’s a second, less gentle knock on the door. She thinks for a moment that Sasha will ignore their etiquette, that she’ll keep shouting at Fiona, client be damned. But Sasha’s jaw obediently clicks shut, and she adjusts her hold on the oversized whiteboard she snatched from the hook on the wall, turning away and muttering, “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Fiona nods, even though she isn’t facing her, and flicks her fringe from where it’s landed in front of her eyes. “Showtime,” she murmurs, cracking her knuckles and closing the doorway to their apartment to head to the main door.

Upon opening it, she finds a man. _Rhys,_ her mind supplies for her, reminding her of the talk on the phone. He’d explicitly stated the spelling for her. Her first impression is that he’s tall – he’s saying something, but it’s only introducing himself, and she already knows who he is, so she happily ignores it – and that he’s stressed. Neatly-gelled, combed back hair has a few loosened strands falling in front of his eyes, which he pushes away with slight annoyance, and his shirt is slightly rumpled to the point that it isn’t wholly tucked into his asymmetrically-striped pants. It’s customised – only one sleeve remains on the shirt, the other giving way to what seems to be some type of prosthetic arm. What catches Fiona’s attention is his shoes. _They’re huge._

She also realises he’s still talking, and lifts a hand to shut him up. “Hi,” she starts. “Rhys. Didn’t notice you were late, don’t care if traffic’s a nightmare, and no, it’s not a bad time, my sister’s just being a bitch in the other room. Come on in.”

Leading him inside, she notices him hesitate at the shoe cupboard before deciding, _no,_ he doesn’t need to take his shoes off to enter someone’s office. Leading him into the room at the side, she sits at her desk, swivelling slightly as she turns to face the empty chair on the other side of the desk. She gestures. He sits.

Eyes travelling uneasily around the office, Fiona can already see in Rhys’ expression that he doesn’t want to be here, and furthermore wondering if she’s in any way an actual professional. For once in her life, she doesn’t have to rely on any supernatural intervention to know the first words out of his mouth will be, _I shouldn’t have come,_ or _this was a mistake._

“I don’t know if I should be here,” he confesses, and the slight smirk lifts her lips at the corners. Bingo. “I just – the cops wouldn’t pay attention, and I need someone to look into this, and I saw your card at the station and thought it would just…”

“You don’t trust me,” she says, twirling her pen between her fingers. “It’s okay, nobody turns up at a PD’s office with a lotta trust in ’em. Normally, it’s why they’re here in the first place.”

Rhys looks distinctly uncomfortable. “It’s not you, it’s just… well. You’re a private detective. I didn’t even realise those existed outside of the 1920s until I saw your ad.”

That makes her chuckle, which seems to relax him slightly. “Right,” she drawls. “And you were expecting to turn up and find a tall, skinny guy with his collar turned up on his overcoat and a cigar hanging outta his mouth, and suddenly the world would turn into black and white and we’d start discussing the Wall Street Crash. Sorry to bust the myth, Reynolds.” He looks somewhat affronted at the use of his surname, so she corrects herself. “Sorry. _Mr_ Reynolds.”

Rhys blinks. “I didn’t expect – you know, that,” he clarifies. “Just thought it would be… thought _I_ would be…”

“Look, if you wanna regret being here, fine,” she interrupts, watching her pen twirl instead of looking at him. “But if you’re gonna start wondering if I’m up for the job, then trust me, I’m good at this. I’ll prove it.” She pauses for a beat. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven,” he replies, slightly uncomfortable.

“Got any family?”

He frowns at her, but plays along. “A… a sister,” he starts. “And both my parents. But they – they live on the other side of the country. We’re not exactly close.”

She nods, chewing her lip as she thinks. “Where do you work?”

“Hyperion,” he responds automatically, and seems to wince when he sees the sheer disgust in her expression as she tears her eyes away from her pen to glare at him. 

“Hyperion?” she repeats, scowling at him from over the desk. “What the hell are you doing with a cut-rate PD like me? Thought you guys had, like, enough money to bribe the entire CIA to do your research for you.”

He looks as disappointed in her as _she_ feels in _him_. “I think you’re getting the executive managers mixed up with, you know, the other ninety-eight percent of the company’s workers,” he says icily. “We’re not all billionaires.”

Raising an eyebrow at the cold reply, Fiona opts for one more question. “Why are you here?”

This brings Rhys up short; he likely expected a retort to his comment about Hyperion. Silence lingers in the room between them for a long moment, before he hesitantly responds, “My friend’s gone missing.” He sounds vulnerable, and knowing who he is and where he works, now, it surprises Fiona. “My – one of my closest friends. He’s gone missing. He’d have told me if he was going away, and it’s been two weeks, now, and I’ve heard nothing from him, and all Hyperion knows is he mysteriously quit his job the last night I saw him. The cops won’t take the case. His family is – god, I dunno, they’re basically as absent as mine, and the only choice I have now is…” 

He looks up at her, and she sees the thinly-veiled desperation in his eyes. “The only hope I have of finding him is _you_.”

They stare at each other for a moment, Fiona trying to find the right words to say, Rhys lost in his fear, before he eventually blinks and changes the subject. In a hollow voice, he says, “You said something about proving you were any good?”

Fiona relaxes. She doesn’t need to give him comfort – not just yet. “Right,” she says, dropping the pencil to the table. It clatters, the noise loud and sharp in the otherwise quiet room. “You’ll see.”

Stretching her hand out, Fiona ignores Rhys now, and focuses her energy on turning back time.

 

She remembers when she first found out she had the power to rewind time. Felix’s private detective agency had been running for only a few months, and he’d conned everyone out of their money, from grieving widows to jealous partners. His plan was simple, yet effective – take their money and tell them what they want to hear, regardless of any truth behind it. He’d taught Fiona how to do the same, and she was a good student, learning how to con the most defenceless people around to keep their business, and their lives, afloat.

Sasha wasn’t a good student. Sasha had too many morals, would work cases too hard, come home too late, get too much information. Sasha would actually try and give the grieving widows and jealous partners the answers they paid for, not the answers they wanted. Felix had told her time and time again that this job was too dangerous to do properly, and the effort wasn’t worth the money. And time and time again, she ignored him.

Looking back on it, it was entirely Fiona’s fault. She hadn’t been there to support her sister or to stop her from working the Bryant case. It was clear, from the start, that Ken Bryant was a dangerous client, and when Janice Bryant found Sasha tailing her on behalf of her own husband, he was pissed. It was the stuff of Felix’s nightmares when Ken Bryant kicked down the door to their apartment, gun in hand, to put a bullet between Sasha’s eyes in revenge.

Fiona had watched it all. She didn’t move in time.

But when she threw her hand in front of her, the shout leaving her lips, something incredible occurred. Time stopped. And, after a few seconds of nothingness, time began to reverse. Time continued to reverse until Fiona lowered her hand, and as the blood began to trickle from her nose, she pushed her sister to the ground and watched the bullet cut through the air above them.

Felix and Sasha had no idea until she told them, later, when Ken was in prison and Janice was left to mourn her marriage. From then on, with the elder sister’s power in their hands, they began an actual detective agency; devoid of fear, devoid of consequence, the three of them were free to pursue an honest career in solving others’ mysteries.

That was four years ago. Fiona still doesn’t know what the extent of her powers are, nor why she has them. She decides to count her blessings and move on.

 

_“But if you’re gonna start wondering if I’m up for the job, then trust me, I’m good at this. I’ll prove it.”_

Rhys is staring at her, none the wiser, and she takes this as a sign to begin. “Your name’s Rhys Reynolds,” she starts, delivering something he already knew she was aware of. “You’re… eh, probably around two years younger than me. I’d guess twenty-seven. You’ve got family, but you’re not close to them – definitely at least one sibling. A sister? And you work for a soul-crushing company, you know, the Hyperion brand of TNC that makes babies cry when you mention it.”

He’s staring at her. “How did you know…”

“And you’re here because someone close to you has gone missing.” She leans back in her chair, lifting her feet up to rest on the edge of the desk, ankles crossed. The chair gives a dangerously prolonged squeak at the lean. “I’m good at my job, Hyperion. Think _real-life Sherlock Holmes_.”

“You can’t know that. You can’t have –” He sits back, running metal fingers through his hair to push the stray locks back into place. “Okay. Fine. So you’re not a… _complete_ fraud.” He folds his arms, still seemingly distressed. 

She pushes her hat back, slightly, pursing her lips as she looks him over again. “No, I’m not. And – I can, uh, kinda relate.” Fiona isn’t sure why she says that; talking about her private life with her clients is the exact opposite of what she should be doing as a professional, and talking about her private life with _anyone_ is the exact opposite of what her instincts say. But she’s started, now, and Rhys’ attention has been caught yet again, so she continues. “With the – you know, with someone you care about going missing. Going through the same thing myself.” She hesitates. “But you –”

At that moment, almost on cue, Sasha pulls the door open, the glower obvious in her eyes as she picks up some of the stray files on the desk. Silent the entire time, Rhys and Fiona’s eyes follow Sasha until she kicks the door shut behind her. She doesn’t even look at them.

“We’re… coping,” Fiona says uncertainly, an apology in her eyes when she turns back to Rhys. “As I was saying, you – I can do business with you. And find your friend. You know, probably.”

He exhales, relieved. “Oh. Oh, thank you. I just really wanna know where he is. I –”

“Yeah, I get it,” she interrupts, reluctantly suppressing an eyeroll. She doesn’t need waterworks and she doesn’t need thanks – in fact, she can’t decide which she hates more. “It’ll be thirty dollars an hour. How many hours a day do you want me working?”

“Thirty dollars an hour?” he exclaims, sitting up. “What – but that’s – _ugh_.”

Fiona grins at him, lowering her feet from the desk as she watches him come to terms with how expensive this business is. She barely hears him mutter, “Vaughn, I’m gonna kill you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case’s contract isn’t all that’s unusual to her line of work. In truth, Fiona has never worked a case about a missing person before. A missing cat, once, but she found it dead an hour after she was hired. This is different to a cat. This is different to an envious partner snooping on an alleged affair, or a scared parent whose child has been buying drugs, or a paranoid thinking they have a stalker – this is a missing person. More than ever before, Fiona might need to work against the clock. She’s lucky the clock is on her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suddenly realising that this fic WILL be a slowly updated one. i'll try to update once a week. <3

The corkboard is propped up against the kitchen counter, the only space available for Fiona to lean it against. In the centre, she’s tacked up a picture of Rhys’ missing best friend. _Vaughn_. Twenty-seven years old, Rhys’ roommate, also works at Hyperion. If they didn’t look so damn different, Fiona would wonder if they’re clones.

When she made that comment to Rhys, he grimaced, shaking his head and replying, “No way – he works in _accounting_.”

Her client had stuck around to give her the information she needed, and a list of everyone that Vaughn could have upset and why, before heading off to go to work. Rhys apparently couldn’t afford to take the day off, especially since, in his bitter words, “I’m gonna get charged into homelessness by these rates.”

Still, he begrudgingly accepted her offer, their deal settling on the minimum of three hours a day until she gets the job done or he calls it off because of the expenses. Due to the case being a little less simple than usual, the contract isn’t normal, but they make it work nonetheless. Fiona searches all her leads – currently very few, so this shouldn’t be too hard – and tells Rhys anything of interest. 

She doesn’t tell Rhys she’s working beyond her three hours. 

The case’s contract isn’t all that’s unusual to her line of work. In truth, Fiona has never worked a case about a missing person before. A missing cat, once, but she found it dead an hour after she was hired. This is different to a cat. This is different to an envious partner snooping on an alleged affair, or a scared parent whose child has been buying drugs, or a paranoid thinking they have a stalker – this is a _missing person_. More than ever before, Fiona might need to work against the clock. She’s lucky the clock is on her side.

Sighing, the detective leans forward, dropping her tilted chair from balancing on two legs back to four as she reaches to adjust the string connecting paper to paper on the corkboard. Currently, from Vaughn’s picture, three lines are extending.

The first reaches for business nemesis, Hugo Vasquez. Rhys described him as ‘slimy and gross’, before, with prompting, expanding on his detail. “Vasquez is a creep,” Rhys explained, “and he’s always been, like, one step behind us on the corporate ladder. You know, he gets his hand on the rung, I’m already lifting my foot off it. But he doesn’t like us – you know, more than he doesn’t like most people. He’s just an asshole. He always takes it out on us, like, trips me over when I’m heading to the elevator because I got invited to the meeting and he didn’t.” According to Rhys, Vasquez and Vaughn have no professional reason to know each other; their departments are entirely different. But Vaughn is always close with Rhys, and Vasquez and Rhys are constantly butting heads, so they got to know and hate each other over the years.

The second piece of string reaches for backstreet investor, Vallory. Rhys hadn’t given Fiona a lot to use with this. In fact, having mentioned her, he then hastened to add, “I don’t know her last name. Or a lot about her, uh, in general. I barely know who she is.” From what Fiona gathered from Rhys, eventually, is that Vallory owns the city. Pandora is, as she’s always expected, harbouring a vast criminal market. They appear in a few places – “a couple of bars, maybe a nightclub, I dunno” – and the illegal empire stretches underground across the entire city. Businesses seek Vallory’s investment. Homeowners, in the rougher areas of town, seek her protection. And corporate arms producers, such as Hyperion, want someone to sell guns to.

“So what you mean to say,” Fiona interrupted drily, “is that you’re responsible for the city’s gun crime rates.”

“Not _exactly_ ,” Rhys stressed. “If Hyperion didn’t sell, someone would.” He’s not wrong; Pandora is a battle ground, a barely-functioning civilisation on the brink of civil war, and all the arms dealers have headquarters in the urban centre. “And anyway, that’s where we come in.”

Apparently, Rhys and Vaughn were looking for a promotion. Something better than middle management. Something closer to the executive. And the deal they set up with Vallory, he told her, would make them heroes in their company’s eyes.

“Then why’s she one of your suspects?” Fiona asked, folding her arms. “Surely she’d want the deal as much as you would.”

Rhys looked uncomfortable. “There had been – well, a few complications. Crossing deals, delayed meetings, you know the type.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Right, you don’t. But – we thought there might be someone else in Hyperion trying to get the same deal. We weren’t sure. Vaughn wanted to bring the deal forward, you know, get the deal signed before our opposition could get in there first. But I wasn’t – well, we didn’t know what the other guy was offering, right? We didn’t know what we were gonna go up against. I wanted more time.”

Fiona leant back. “So you think he might’ve gone ahead with the meeting anyway?”

“I don’t – god, I hope not. I dunno. It’s just an idea.”

“I’ll take anything and everything, right now.”

The third piece of string leads to something incredibly dissatisfying, and something Fiona knows isn’t the answer, deep down. But she has to consider all the possibilities. The string is pinned against a piece of paper with three words on: HE’S JUST GONE.

Rhys’ face confirmed her doubts. He knows Vaughn hasn’t just disappeared, and Fiona doesn’t believe it either. But they have to, at the least, consider it.

A printout of all her research on her two candidates is stuck up in pieces around them, closer to the picture if she thinks it matters more and further away if she thinks it doesn’t. Vasquez, unsurprisingly, has a lot more information available online than Vallory. However, research on Vallory didn’t come up completely empty. Fiona now knows where to start, at least – a garage on the edge of town, going by the name of Scooter’s. She prays the assistant, Springs, still works there.

Just before Fiona’s ready to go, there’s a knock at the door. From her bedroom, Sasha yells, “Fi, get that!” and Fiona is allowed to sigh and kick the corkboard to lie face-down on the kitchen tiles before she stands up and answers the door. “Oh,” she says. “It’s you.”

August grins at her, shouldering his way past with his fingers shoving his spiked hair back as he opens the inset door to the apartment. “Hey,” he greets, back turned. “Where’s Sasha?”

“Come in,” she replies bitterly, nudging the door shut. “She’s just getting ready.”

“Damn, Sasha,” he calls out in the vague direction of her bedroom, shrugging his jacket off as though he lives in their home too. “Thought we had this conversation. I don’t care what the soap operas say – it’s not sexy to keep a guy waitin’!”

“It’s not sexy,” Sasha calls back, “but I’m lazy!”

“Alright, jeez, enough with the foreplay already.” Fiona elbows her way out of the entrance hall after August decided to stop directly inside the apartment. Turning to glance at him as she heads to the kitchen, she picks up her coffee from the counter and raises an eyebrow at him over the rim. “Where’re you taking her this time?” she asks, leaning against the counter. “It better not be the goddamn bar again.”

He glares at her. “The bar’s classy.”

“The bar’s where you both _work_ ,” she corrects. “Damn. At least let her feel like she’s not on shift _every_ date night.” 

Kicking a chair out to drop into it gracelessly, August shrugs. “Sasha likes the place, I get to check it’s bein’ run properly while I’m out, and we get discounts because I friggin’ own the place. What’s not to like?”

Before Fiona can respond – and, for the record, her response would have been a high-pitched mimicking of _What’s not to like?_ – Sasha emerges from her bedroom, grinning at August in a slightly fancier version of the tee-and-skirt combination she was wearing before. Oh, and there are earrings this time. “Hi, hon,” she greets, and he gives Fiona a little wave before standing up and guiding his girlfriend to the door.

“Probably won’t be back tonight, Fi!” Sasha calls out before the door shuts behind her, and Fiona groans. And shudders. And downs the rest of her coffee in the hope that it can distract her from the implications of what her baby sister just said to her.

 

Scooter’s garage is a scrappy, unpolished, rusting shack of a place, wedged in between a Chinese take-out and a block of apartments. When Fiona arrives, it’s already dark, the winter hours encroaching on daylight faster than she expected. Luckily, the garage is still open, and she hops out of her van to wander inside. 

Country music stutters out of an old stereo perched on the side of the counter, and Fiona switches it off disdainfully – it’s too quiet for anyone five metres away to hear, and the room itself appears to be empty. “Hello?” she calls, crouching to look under the car parked in the middle of the garage, just in case the mechanic was hidden under there. Nothing. 

A beat passes, and just as the stench of gasoline and metal is convincing her to leave, she hears a clatter from around the corner.

“That a voice I hear?” comes a distinctly Australian accent, and the lady that follows it is… everything Fiona expected from a garage mechanic. Dirty blonde, uneven hair, a ripped shirt and tattoos running down her arms, not to mention a vivid burn scar covering most of her throat and the side of her face, travelling all the way until it appears at the bottom of her shirt, Fiona is strangely attracted to her rugged style. “Janey Springs,” the lady offers, wiping her hand on her jeans before sticking it out for Fiona to shake. “Nice to meetcha.”

“Fiona,” she replies, taking the hand and shaking it before she flicks her fringe out of her eyes. “I’m, uh, looking for –”

“—Scooter?” interrupts Springs, turning around. “Sorry, mate, I think he’s long gone. Place shouldn’t even be open this late, but I was workin’ on this bike, an’ I figured, heh, might as well stick around until the job’s –”

“—Athena,” Fiona finishes, pulling a face in apology for the interruption. “I’m looking for Athena.” 

Springs seems taken aback for a moment, but blinks, hand resting on her hip a moment later. “An’ whaddya want with Athena?”

“To talk,” she replies, honestly. “I didn’t know where to find her, but I thought this might be the place to start.”

“An’ what’s it about, huh? Y’ talkin’?”

At this, Fiona hesitates, unsure as to how much Springs will trust her. “I’m looking into a… a lead. I’m trying to find someone, and I think Athena can help me.”

The friendly vibe Springs gave her evaporates swiftly, her eyes narrowing and her head flicking to push the hair from her face. “She ain’t available right now,” Springs replies shortly. Fiona knows it’s a lie. 

“When’s she gonna be around?” she asks anyway, humouring the mechanic.

“Whaddya want, Fiona?” snaps Springs, folding her arms. “What are ya gonna ask her about?”

“Vallory,” says Fiona, and that’s all she gets to say before the mechanic is turning her back on her. “Wait—” she tries, reaching out to Springs, but all she receives in return is a shrug-off. Springs heads back to the bike she was working on before.

Fiona steps forward, heart sinking, before Springs says, “Shop’s closin’ now. Come back tomorrow if ya need a mechanic. Don’t come back if ya need anythin’ else.”

Hesitating, Fiona bites her lip, considering her options and glancing back at the van before making her mind up. With a hand outstretched and the other reaching up to press against her nose in case it begins to bleed, she rewinds.

_“An’ what’s it about, huh? Y’ talkin’?”_

“Someone I know has gone missing and she’s the only lead I can find to know more about the woman that took him.” Springs stares at her, and before she can reply, Fiona presses on in the hope that she can change her mind. “I know you want to protect her, but I won’t be dragging Athena into anything. I just wanna talk.”

Immediately, she sees the change in Springs’ expression, and the mechanic seems to hesitate before she looks down. “Vallory’s bad business,” she says, and Fiona resists the urge to sigh in relief. “If she _is_ behind your friend’s disappearance, your friend’s as good as dead.”

“I lied,” Fiona admits. “He’s not my friend. I never met the guy. I’ve just been hired to find him.”

Springs looks sceptical, but lets it go, pulling a pen from behind her ear and grabbing Fiona’s hand. She begins to jot down a number. Biting down on a quip about being flattered, Fiona waits for her to finish before tugging her hand back. “You’ll get Athena on that number,” the mechanic tells her, tucking the pen back behind her ear, “but don’t call her tonight. Try tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Fiona starts, but Springs cuts her off with a shake of her head.

“Don’t thank me yet, she replies. “Athena ain’t gonna tell you anything easy, but I’ll tell her you had my blessing.”

Fiona shrugs. “Seriously. Thanks.”

“Good luck finding your…” Springs pauses. She looks slightly befuddled. “Client?”

**Author's Note:**

> find me at hyperionangel.tumblr.com !!


End file.
